Waiting for Love at Terminal Five
by alchemilla mollis
Summary: Bella and Edward share the frustration of Heathrow's Terminal Five while awaiting their errant significant others. He is committed and so is she. She is a copywriter and he a lawyer. Are they lying to each other ...or to themselves?
1. Chapter 1:  Edward

Un-beta'd, but mostly error-free I hope? All –Human, first person, ExB. Yeah, I know, there are lots of those around.

**Waiting for Love at Terminal Five**

**Chapter one: Edward**

Edward waits at Heathrow Terminal Five. International Arrivals lounge. He has timed it right, he thinks. She should be through passport control now, perhaps getting her luggage. He searches for her face, her distinctive hair and figure, as the automatic doors swing open to release the passengers. He looks back and forth, back and forth. The rain pours outside, onto the expansive glass.

Someone runs up and places elbows next to him on the railing, leaning to get a better look. She glances at her watch; she is flustered, perhaps late. He sees her in his peripheral vision, or gets a better view when their heads momentarily coordinate and they face one another. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair sparkling with tiny raindrops. A lovely English Rose, he thinks. Alabaster skin and chestnut hair with the faintest of red highlights. He likes to think of them as Celtic streaks in the old Norman recipe. Some Scottish or Irish genes in there.

Left right, left right. If he stays looking too long to the left, Tanya might exit through the right doors, then wheel her trolley the wrong way and miss him completely. Too long on the right, he'll lose her in the crowds on the left.

Edward shifts on his feet, tired of this game. "Like being at Wimbledon," he mutters to himself. "Who the hell designed this place?"

"Richard Rogers Partnership," the young woman mutters back.

"Sorry?" he says, wanting to hear it again. Her r's sound American. He feels a touch of disappointment.

"Richard Rogers Partnership," she says more firmly, not looking up at him, but peering into the distance at the automatic doors.

He looks down directly at her face for the first time. The flush on her cheeks deepens, when she senses his stare.

"Well, they did a rubbish job," he declares.

She doesn't answer. She turns her face away, to the other door.

_Fuck_, maybe she is an architect at Richard Rogers Partnership and he's put his foot in his mouth. She is a professional of some kind, he surmises. Beneath her classic Mackintosh raincoat, he can see a sliver of upscale office attire: silk collared blouse, a gold necklace with a single pearl pendant. She is slender, early twenties.

"They didn't consider human traffic behavior," he clarifies. "Though it is a beautiful structure." She still doesn't respond.

_Oh fuck it. _He sighs. She is a total stranger – why should he care?

Edward and the American girl are silent for a while. Left, right, a 180 degree swing of the head. He checks his Blackberry. Over one hour since landing. Anytime now, Tanya.

Tanya is a dawdler. She would keep the Queen waiting. She would relish it, in fact. There are convenient trolleys in baggage collection but she probably hired a porter. Or she is held up in customs because she overspent the limit.

He hopes she will be happy to see him. And that he'll feel a surge of something when he sees her. Something like love.

He has even looked at rings. They've looked at them together, at least through windows. His father (and hers) have been encouraging, prodding, nudging for six months now. It is _a good match,_ everyone agrees. A match made in heaven, says Tanya's mother. A match made in bed, thinks Edward. And on the floor. And against the wall.

"Oh my God, you are right," says American girl suddenly. "This is a terrible design. How do you know which door they will come out of? If you're looking the wrong way, you will lose them to the crowd!"

"Exactly." Edward smiles, relieved. "Looks like the Miami flight," he ventures, nodding toward the latest expulsion of humans and their cargo. Flowery shirts, flip flops, short sleeves. A few smiles. "They're in for a shock," he says, raising a hand back toward the rain splattered windows.

"Why not Bermuda? Or Madeira?" she muses.

He points at the screen of his phone and smirks. She leans closer to look at his phone (he can smell her hair), where he has the online list of arrivals at Terminal Five.

"Miami," she reads and then looks up at his face for the first time. They stare at each other for...how long? Later, he cannot say. Was it a full 30 seconds?

Her brown eyes dart back to the screen. "May I?" She wants to look at his phone.

"Sure." He hands her the phone and she scrolls, perhaps finding the flight for which she waits. She frowns. Edward wonders if she waits for a boyfriend. Or perhaps her family, coming to visit their American daughter living in London. He refrains from asking.

"You're American too," she says, tentatively, handing back his phone. Their fingers don't touch. "But you used the word _rubbish_. Not garbage, but _rubbish_."

"I've been here a while," he explains. "I've picked up the lingo, my sister tells me."

"I see. I haven't been in the UK long, but... " Her brow puckers. "You look familiar to me. Do we know one another?"

"Not that I recall. I would have remembered _you_," Edward declares softly, then realizes he is flirting. He mustn't flirt with another woman. He is engaged. Or as good as.

"No, I've seen you before. Where do you work?" she persists.

"McLaren Group."

"Banking?" she asks. Her eyes take in his tie, his cuff links, his expensive shirt.

"Banking Law," he answers, dully. He wonders if she is disappointed. He is disappointed in himself, certainly. She would laugh if he said he was a musician, given what he's wearing.

"Must be riveting," she says, amused.

"Oh, 'tis." He nods emphatically. Her jab hurts a little.

"No, I guess I don't know you," she decides.

"Guess not," he says coolly.

They go back to looking at the doors, left and right. She wriggles one foot out of her high heel and bends the toes against her ankle. Then she carefully switches feet, while gripping the railing. He watches discreetly, but not for very long. He reminds himself that he isn't the type of man that says _I'm only looking, there's no harm in that._

"Africa, surely," she says.

A group of mostly dark-skinned passengers comes through with more than one woman attired in long floral cotton dress and tall,matching headwrap. One woman has a baby ingeniously included as part of the dress; her arms are free.

This is something he loves about London. The unmelted pot of nations.

For almost an hour Edward and the American girl guess the origin of various arrivals and then look at his Blackberry to confirm. Her comments are pithy and perceptive, but never unkind. He makes some less-than-generous observations about various American tourists, pointing out some ridiculous shorts, a pot belly or two, and a group of obvious Harry Potter enthusiasts on a tour. She puts her hand over her mouth and laughs. She dares to scold him: "You're _terrible_!"

He is thoroughly charmed. He thinks he should offer to go buy them coffee while they wait, but then he might miss Tanya's exit.

"So what do you do, then?" he challenges eventually.

She raises her chin. "I'm a novelist," she says, but it doesn't roll off her tongue easily.

"Uh-huh," he answers sceptically, with a deliberate up-and-down of her office attire. "Yeah, you dress like one." _Unpublished novelist_, he almost says.

She purses her lips; he has called her out. It is tit-for-tat, payback for the 'riveting' comment. Not very nice; something he has picked up from Tanya.

"Sorry," he mumbles. Just because everyone shit on his dreams, doesn't mean he should do the same to this gentle stranger beside him. He wonders what she writes about.

"God, where is he?" she complains suddenly, checking her watch.

Ah, so it **is** a man she awaits. Edward's face falls; she doesn't see it. "Held up in passport control perhaps," he suggests. "Is he an American too?"

"Yeah," she says. She looks up at Edward. "Is _she_ an American?"

"How do you know I'm waiting for a woman?" he asks, curious. Can this young woman read his tension, his uncertainty, his fear that he won't feel anything when Tanya walks through the door? He hates that he might be transparent.

"I had a fifty percent chance of being right." She smiles, shrugging.

He looks away. Her smile has become too enticing, and he wants to look longer. "My girlfriend is English," he says, staring back at the doors. He feels something twist in his chest, but he doesn't know what it is.

His phone goes off. It's Tanya. At last!

"Tanya," he answers, his head down. "Where are you?" He feels a little unsettled, like he was cheating on his girlfriend. He mentally shakes it off.

"Hello love, have you left for the airport already?" Her voice lilts, but she sounds tired.

"Left? I've been here for over two hours already." He turns and steps away from the railing. He doesn't want _her_ to hear their exchange, or the sound of Tanya's voice coming through the phone.

"Oh, darling, I am so sooo sorry. I am at JFK now. We were held up on the Long Island Expressway for hours, and I missed my flight."

"Ah, shit." He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a few choice words. Tanya makes noises of sympathy.

"Tanya." He frowns. "Your flight departed over seven hours ago. Why are you just now letting me know?"

She gives her excuses. _Stuck in traffic, thought you were asleep, got the time difference backward._ They are lame excuses and possibly variations of the truth. Tanya has trouble thinking of others outside the scope of her current task, that's all, particularly when it's a big event. The social aspect of her job is demanding too. How well Edward knows that, unfortunately.

"So what flight _will_ you be on?"

"BA Flight 212. Departs here in a few hours."

"When does it arrive at Heathrow?"

"I don't know, darling, can you look it up? It must be on the internet."

Edward is tempted to tell her to get a cab. And to pay for it herself. To make her way unaided back to her flat. But he doesn't. He is (almost) her fiance'. He should pick her up.

"It's probably arrives 7 a.m. or something," he says, suddenly weary.

"Well, that's early," she says, as if surprised. "You don't have to come, you know."

"I'll be here," he sighs. "I want to be here."

They exchange farewells. _I love you_, he says and Tanya says it back. He hits the end button and stares at his phone for a second. He whirls around. Where is the American girl? He should say goodbye. Goodbye and good luck.

She is still over by the railing. She is on her phone, gesturing, much like he was. Her hair moves around her shoulders, and he knows it smells like strawberries, because he smelled it earlier.

Edward waits, while she speaks. He waits for a full five minutes, not going any closer, nor walking away. She seems upset with her caller, though he can't hear what she says.

She doesn't look in his direction, not once. Why should she?

He swallows. He puts his phone back in his pocket, which he realizes he has been gripping a bit too tightly. "Goodbye, American girl," he says. Edward heads out into the rain, which still falls steadily from the sky.

_Like tears,_ he thinks.

8&8&8&8&8&

The next chapter up tomorrow.

This is written in response to a discussion on A Different Forest blog, where I realized how ridiculously slow I am, how I fuss too much over my stories. So I wrote this in a two evening frenzy, with little editing. Go me!#

Review? _Darling_, please, says Tanya (in a posh British accent), you can do it for me.

If you've ever gone to pick up someone at International Arrivals Terminal five, you'll know what I'm talking about.


	2. Chapter 2:  Bella

Do you know what 'busking' means?

**Chapter Two: Bella**

Damn it all, she's overslept. Such a restless night; such vivid dreams! The stranger, busking in the London Underground of all things. She could hear his guitar, his voice, always in the tunnel ahead, just around the next corner. She hurries in the dream, a one pound coin heavy in her hand to put in his open guitar case. She never finds him.

Just a freaky dream. Bella leaps in the shower and finishes in record time. She grabs her makeup bag as she hurls herself out the door.

Now Bella is back where she was just ten hours ago: Terminal Five. The arrivals board says the New York flight has just landed. She reaches the rail, choosing the same place where Tall-Ginger-Handsome was standing the day before. Ginger doesn't nearly describe the colors in his hair, but she likes the phrase tall-ginger-handsome.

Bella relaxes a bit, resigned to waiting again. She thinks of Jake and tries to comb out some of the tangles in her damp hair, using her fingers.

"Beijing," says a voice at her shoulder and she turns. It's Tall-Ginger-Handsome. He grins at her, widely, and nods toward Asian businessmen pouring rapidly through the left swinging doors.

"Beijing," she agrees. "You're here again?"

"And so are you," he returns.

"My boyfriend missed his flight."

"Mine too. My girlfriend, that is."

"You're kidding. It wasn't from New York, by any chance?"

"Indeed, it was. Backup on the Long Island Expressway."

"Same thing!"

They both laugh, even though it's not _that_ coincidental. Thousands fly out of New York every day.

"Can I get you a coffee?" he asks, pointing at the Costa counter across the terminal. "We have some time still."

While he is gone, Bella searches desperately for a comb in her purse; she finds none and returns to combing with her fingers. She hasn't a lick of makeup on.

Soon he is back with a large Latte, in an oversize cup on a ceramic saucer. She takes it carefully; he has not spilled a drop. "You know they'll give you to-go cups, if you ask," she says. "With lids."

"I prefer proper cups and saucers, thank you."

"You are more British than you thought," she teases. "AND you're drinking that horrible milky tea."

"Oh, it's pure comfort," he counters, sipping and closing his eyes. The look on his face – Bella burns it into her memory.

"But who would put _milk_ in _tea_?" she says. "That's just wrong."

"Keep your voice down." He feigns offense and she giggles. They watch the passengers. There is no need for the left-right head swing yet. He takes the dishes back to Costa and she holds his place while he is gone, spreading her arms to keep the limo drivers from stepping up to display their placards in his spot.

"So what lawyerly things will you do today?" she asks, when he returns. "Look for legal loopholes so your boss can have his billion-pound bonus?"

"That's tomorrow's agenda," he says, and she can't tell if he is joking. "Today I help Indonesia's Finance Minister restructure its debt."

"Oh," she squeaks. She feels too ignorant to ask further questions.

"We're not ALL evil bastards, you see. Not all the time."

"I think you're really nice." She regrets the words the second they leave her lips. The blood rushes to her face. She looks down at the rail.

He takes a breath. "And you? Five thousand words today perhaps?"

"Perhaps," she says.

"You look like a credible writer today," he observes. She wears holey jeans, sneakers and a plain knit sweater with a floral scarf. Her office job an advertising copywriter is only part-time. (That's why she knew about Terminal Five's architect – they're clients.)

"Yes," she agrees, feeling embarrassed. She should have dressed better for Jake's arrival. Tall-Ginger-Handsome is impeccable in another suit, a grey spring fabric with a deep blue shirt. He hasn't put on his tie yet, and there is chest hair at his neckline. Bella doesn't really like chest hair. Not usually.

"In fact," she says. "I am not quite finished dressing." One auburn eyebrow goes up. She notices for the first time how green his eyes are. "Do you think I have time to run to the bathroom?"

They glance at the board. BA flight 212 now lists 'luggage in the hall'.

"Maybe," he says. "Do you want me to keep an eye out for your boyfriend? Is he...uh, describable?"

"Yes," she straightens. "He's quite distinctive, actually. Six foot six and broad-shouldered. Black hair and dark complexion."

"Oh." Both eyebrows are up now. "Rugby player?" he asks, perhaps forgetting that's not a common American sport.

"No," she says, hedging. Jake's job requires a long explanation that she doesn't want to give. "I'll be back!" she cries and darts off to the restroom. Or the _Loo, _as they call it here. The WC. It's not a place to _rest_ and it has no _bath_ in it, so she has been told by her amused British colleagues.

For now it's a place to put on some makeup and find a hairbrush. Okay, there is no goddamn brush in her purse anywhere. She finds a clip and twists her hair up instead. A dash of under-eye concealer, a brush of mascara and a little lip colour. Better. She dashes back, like a rabbit.

He is watching her approach. He has a slight frown on his face, and she wonders why.

"No big dark blokes yet," he reports. "But it's time to start looking."

"What does your girlfriend look like? In case I see her first," she adds, hastily.

"Blonde curly hair. Tall for a woman. Neat."

"Neat?" Bella smiles. "As in George-Bush-golly-I-think-you-Grecians-are-neat? Or do you mean tidy?"

He isn't offended, but he doesn't laugh either. "Not dishevelled," he clarifies. "Despite the long flight." The frown is fixed in place now.

He is already distancing himself, she thinks. Bella has been too forward, with that 'you're really nice' comment. The British supposedly don't like obvious pronouncements of feeling, and he has become pretty British in her opinion.

'Nice' is an insipid word, actually. Almost an insult more than a compliment. She's a writer, and couldn't think of anything better than '_nice'_? God!

She feels his eyes on her. Every time she turns back; his eyes dart away. She notices she has not been looking for Jake at all, just moving her head without seeing.

"You should leave it down," he says, after a minute. He means her hair, she realizes.

"I should?" She narrows her eyes at his audacity. She looks up at him until he stops his left-right movement to look back at her.

"Yes."

_Who are you, to guess what my boyfriend prefers? _she wants to ask, but before she can speak, he reaches over and pinches the clip, so that her hair falls down to her shoulders.

Her mouth opens. She wants to slap him. She wants to kiss him.

"Tanya," he chokes, looking at the left door. He picks up Bella's hand, places the clip in her palm, and closes his other hand over hers briefly. "Goodbye," he says, and the frown is in his eyes now. "Goodbye, American girl."

"BELLS!" she hears, from the right door. "Bells, I'm over here."

"I'm coming, sweetie," she murmurs. But her eyes stay left, for as long as they can, until she loses him to the crowd.

*7*7*7*7*7*7

Just a two-parter for now. I could end it here...I could write more... but I gotta finish An Abridged Account.

Do you find these shorties unsatisfying? Or quickie diversions?

Costa is a Starbucks-like chain. _Busking_ is a term I didn't know until I moved to the UK. What do they call it in the US? ? Reviews are _well lush,_ as British teens say.


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